


It's A Mad World Out There

by winnowedaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Light Angst, M/M, Separation Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13244310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winnowedaway/pseuds/winnowedaway





	It's A Mad World Out There

The paper's open. Suspicious death-string, the edge of town opposite to their little vacation-motel, just like Bobby noted (implied he handle). Sam's planning on swinging by for Dean's sake- looks basic enough, and he's the only one capable. Can't just say no can do, so he's gotta step in before Dean catches wind. His mate might actually go insane at something so unattended, so close, yet so out of his reach. He'll have to get ready and get gone by the time Dean is out of the shower, if he wants to maintain peace. The shower's still running, steam billowing from doorframe gaps. Must look real nice in there, water dripping down, fuck... Dean's an artwork. He's an artwork with a sprained ankle, though, so there's no way in hell he's going. 

Sam transfers a suit, a false ID- Homeland Security, nice- better shoes, and a casual outfit into a backpack. He can't just lug his whole duffel, Dean'll freak. Well, he already will knowing Sam's gone, reading the note he'll leave. It's just be a jump from fake-indifference to panic-rants. Clothes rolled and careful-folded, strategic packing, things all done, Sam plops on the bed, knees cracking in worn distress. Sounds come from the bathroom- shaving-taps, shower curtain rattle. Fuck. 

Pen and notepad are snatched up by Sam's panic-swift hands and he writes an assurance, places it on the bedspread. Clothes rustle, Dean stumbles around with soft echo-bumps sounding all the way to where Sam's sitting. Sam stands- belt buckle jingle- jolt of panic sends him standing. He's got the bookbag slung over his shoulder the moment Dean light-limps in, steam cloud-filling the room. His mate's lips tug down into a minute frown, eyebrows concern-furrowed. So expressive, thinks he's got a façade nailed down. "What, you weren't plannin' on tellin' me where we're goin'?"

"You're not going." Sam gruffs, but Dean's clearly not having it, would fight to be by Sam's side until his throat rasps and Sam has to order him to shut up.

"Why the fuck not?" Dean's voice insists low-accusation and Sam hates that shit. Would've tolerated- even coddled it- a long time ago, but Dean will talk himself into anything he wants and he can't do that this time. "Sam, I've gotta-"

"Not with a sprained ankle, Dean. You know you can't." Sam's teasing on orders, lacing threat-firm words with a look of warning. Dean, however, looks unfazed. Shrugs, even. "Not gonna have you fuckin' it up even worse."

"Whaddya expect me to do, then?" Being without Sam is like being without air. It'll make his perception spotty at best until he blanks out and crumples. Dean knows Sam knows it's the same for him. 

Sam thinks about it for a few seconds, considers every option, every task but eventually settles upon, "Go to the bar. I don't care. Just... Don't miss me, tear yourself up. I'll be back, then we can relax again." It's not a demand, more of a question, but Dean nods nonetheless.

"You sure you don't care?" Dean's smirk is something taunting, paired with low-words. Fuck. Whatever Dean's thinking of, he can go right ahead.

"I'm sure." Chaste kiss to Dean's lips. Sam turns, collects weaponry and loads a rental, leaving Dean alone with the whistle of the wind against flimsy walls.

'Go to the bar,' Sam had said. Go to the bar, don't miss him. How the hell is he supposed to do that? Dean stands, bowleg-strides to the battered chair his jacket's slung over. He shrugs it on, fumbles for his keys before realizing that Sam's got them. Fucking bullshit. 

He'll just have to walk, then. It's only across the street, just a little ways.

* * *

 

Her name is Bella, she says. Her hair's a flaming auburn, eyes melted-chocolate brown, and lips are full and soft, but the best part isn't her looks- it's the sounds and the way she asks and what she has the potential to provide. Her breaths are high-whines straight from a porno (during sex) playboy-bunny body showoff, tastes like sweet-musk seawater. 

Her back arches perfect with every flick and swirl of his tongue- she won't do anything but that and touch, Dean wants the guts to convince her otherwise- and every delve makes her higher, every moan makes Dean harder. Fuck. 

Of course, she's been avidly saying no-sex-no-sex and Dean's been hushing her with reassurance, but that doesn't mean he can't get something. He'd willingly get her off and go, but she makes such pretty sounds. He knew from the start that there's no way in hell he'll ever be able to calm himself down from the thought of her. He hasn't yet, but that's still not the greatest thing about her. It's the fact that she's a distraction.

Driving back from her place was easy, nice and grounded, mind planted roots firm in reality. Well, honestly, leaving her wasn't the easy part. Avoiding the thought of Sam was. Thoughts of slicked-up fingers and a constricted throat or strong arms wrapped around him, loose in sleep, came to mind, not even when the sun began to greyscale the world. He didn't once miss his mate, which is precisely what was expected from him. It's just, Sam didn't say 'fuck a beta.' He didn't say to fuck anyone. It was pink- the sky- by the time he rounded the corner to the motel. It would've been pretty if it wasn't the same color sunset-sky that Dean retreated into. Hickey-fingerprint neck in rough style of Sam. Fuck. Now the wanting kicks in. Pulling into the parking lot itself was a struggle with his mind thought-thick. No room for basic function and he can't get enough air. He missesmissesmisses Sam. Fuck. He's in need of another washing, gets a beer as he strips off his shirt. Jeans follow suit as he swigs, takes the bottle halfway to the bathroom before discarding it, empty, and scalding off the sex-stench. There's no buzz but internal warmth washes him over as soap runs down from his hair, lacing between crevices and over skin. His eyes close, head tilts back, encompassed in water-heat until it falls arctic. The towel's wound around his waist in a matter or seconds, water-drips everywhere, on the carpet. Dean can't be bothered. He just wants- _needs_ \- his mate. 

Shiver-cold fingers dial over number-keys, settle over the call button, press it. Those very fingers vigor-tap over the phone's backing while it rings, rings rings. Dean gets another beer, sits on the bed. Phone rings.... Rings.... Clicks. "Hello?"

"Sammy," Dean breathes. Voice slightly dulled, a bit sated.... Like after sex. Like he is for damn hours after he'd fucked someone. What's he been doing, rather who? Lividity seeps in, paralyzes Sam where he stands.

"So, you enjoy fuckin' someone else?" Dean goes pale, sips down an eighth-bottle. Sam knows Dean like the back of his hand- maybe better- this was an immature decision.

"Sam, I- You said-" Everything's short-circuit panic, heart threatening to crack his chest and escape the bones, how's Sam so easily making him like this? Sammy's never like this. It's _not fair._

 "You think I meant to go cheatin' on me?" Sharp, biting, scolding tone shrinks Dean into himself. Sam's almost satisfied, but he feels like shit still, that Dean would do this. 

Oh, god, Dean's gonna get it. "No, I... No. Of course not." Line goes dead, leaves Dean to brave waiting alone. What started as a need for company turned to a sickness, an ailment, can't wait for Sammy but wants him far, far away out of shame.

The drive, for Sam, is a hell of traffic-jam cursing and swerves. How _dare_ Dean. Indescribable nightmare-scene trust-abuse batters Sam senseless seconds by seconds until a couple hours have gone by and the hotel's in sight. Lights are off in their room, as he anticipated, but what he  _didn't_ take into account was how he would react to it. Oh, well. Impulse overrides planning at times like this, anyways.

Strides to the door, slams it open. Dean's towel-clad, staring at a beer bottles. Empty shell. "Girl or guy?" Sam asks, tugging Dean's face up. "Look at me." 

Dean's eyes- guilt-darkened, wide- lift to Sam's, slow and careful. Talking his dear, sweet time. "Girl," His voice is faint. Waking up mentally, nerves going from zero to overdrive.

"What was she?" Sam's voice growls out something threatening, makes Dean's heart jolt out of his chest and his cock- not that he'd admit it- almost strain to spring from his jeans. It's the voice Sam uses to lecture, to insist-not-demand, fuck him senseless. Dean isn't sure which he wants, which he needs. He swallows hard like he could drink the Sammy-need down and away. His Adam's apple jumps wildly over his throat, once-twice and a hop-skip little bob. "Don't make me ask again."  
  
Sam's free hand moves down from shoulder to arm to tightening at his hip, constricting and Dean fucking keens, "Beta, beta, Sammy. Wasn't even good sex-" Hard nip to his neck screeches his words to a halt real easy.  
  
"I didn't ask about the sex." He didn't. Fuck. Adam's apple bobbing, composure held precariously, Dean's mind is slowly being unbound. Soon it'll be nothing but need, but he'll refuse to acknowledge it, prepare for the oncoming taxation on himself. "I just wanted to know if I had a little competition."  
  
"Never," Dean breathes. It's funny how easily his gruff bravado caves in and his vulnerable self shines through. Makes life easier. Quicker. You get to the core of the matter without having to slave over layers, protective personalities. 

"Good." Warm lips crash against his, claiming him, screaming  _mine_ even as Dean's hands come up grasping and pulling, fighting for a sliver of power. Dean's a bundle of demands and insecurities, often both at the same time, right now both yearning for forgiveness. To come out unscathed. 

In his hair, over his back, pulling and tugging, Dean's wants insist he be welcomed. Insist Sam's body be his for the taking. Symbiosis, that's what it is, Sam can't just  _own._

"Fucking beta? The hell, Dean?" Sam's tone contorts something wicked-sharp, knife from his dreams pointed at him like a nightmare. Sam's bleeding at the heart from Dean's actions, now it's time to repent. Come back to Sam, taker the blade. 

"Never again, Sam." He closes his eyes, admits, leans back onto the bed with six feet plus of cold hurt towing over him. "Promise."

Only a low growl sounds in response, body hot against his, for a long time. It's all kisses, drinking him down, showering him in claims, and then Sam brings up his voice, lower still, so far on descent it's reached and delved far beyond gravelly. "Better fuckin' not."

Dean doesn't take it as a threat, not at all. He knows he won't even need it, not after the night Sam probably has in store.


End file.
